


...Then Comes Marriage

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Series: Anne of Green Gables AU [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anne of Green Gables, F/M, Jon x Sansa Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: The four proposals Sansa refused and the one she accepted. A sequel to ‘First Comes Love’.
Written for Round 2 of the Jon x Sansa Remix on LivejournalRemix Couple: Anne Shirley x Gilbert Blythe





	

**Author's Note:**

> REPOSTED
> 
> Apparently this wasn't showing up in the tags when I posted it yesterday, so I deleted my first attempt and am posting it again. Apologies if you already left kudos/comments and they were deleted!

**Proposal #1: Harrion  
**  

“That’ll be a match someday. Mark my words.”

Catelyn followed the direction of Leona Manderly’s nod to where Sansa and Jon Snow stood idling by the hedgerow.

“They’re children,” Catelyn protested, not liking what Mrs. Manderly was implying. Sansa was far too young to entertain such notions.

Mrs. Manderly scoffed, shooting Catelyn a knowing look over the rim of her teacup.

“Sansa’s eighteen. I was wed and a mother at her age,” Mrs. Manderly said matter-of-factly. “And that Jon Snow is mad for her. Has been since they were children.”

Catelyn frowned and glanced back towards her eldest daughter. Upon second appraisal, Catelyn reluctantly admitted to herself that the scene was perhaps not as innocent as she’d originally supposed. She watched as Sansa laughed and chattered away, a posy of buttercups clutched in one hand. Jon Snow wore a soft adoring smile on his face as he appeared to be hanging onto Sansa’s every word.

“You best be careful, Catelyn,” Leona warned. “I worry this going to university business will spoil her. Forgive me for saying it, but she’s already a little too given to putting on airs, your Sansa. Jon Snow’s a good, steady sort. She’ll not do better here or in Gulltown.”

It irked Catelyn to hear any of her children the subject of such chastisement, but Catelyn could not deny there was some small measure of truth in what Mrs. Manderly had said.

Across the yard, blissfully oblivious to their future being decided by Mrs. Manderly, Jon and Sansa strolled the fence line, enjoying one of the last fine nights of summer.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Jon observed as they circled past the winter garden.

Sansa sighed.

“I’m trying to commit it to memory,” she said, casting a forlorn look about her. “I don’t want to forget anything.”

“You do know you’ll be back when school holidays come around,” Jon teased, a smile twisting his lips.

In truth, he knew far too well what Sansa was feeling. He had started at the university in Gulltown the year before, and the homesickness had gnawed at him miserably during the long months between the start of term and his brief visits home. His only comfort in returning to the city was in knowing that a certain redheaded girl would be joining him this time around.

Sansa huffed out a breath.

“Of course, you’re right. I know I’m being foolish, it’s just…” she paused, looking wistfully out over the orchards behind the house. “You know, sometimes I feel like I am still a little girl. As if no time has passed and tomorrow we might set out for our old schoolroom with Mr. Luwin.”

“Back to our days of primers and school picnics,” Jon mused. “As I recall, you did not like me so much back then.”

Sansa laughed, warm and bright, remembering ‘carrots’, that long ago slight against her hair, unintentional though it was, which spurred Sansa’s girlhood pledge to hate Jon Snow forever. It was a grievance so long forgotten that it seemed silly to think upon now.

“I suppose we’re all quite grown up now,” Sansa sighed, some of her melancholy returning.

Sansa’s leaving for Gulltown was not the only proof of that. Robb would be a father before the year was out. And Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s dearest friend, was engaged to be married as of the spring. Slowly, piece-by-piece, the world Sansa had known and cherished seemed to be crumbling before her eyes.

“Oh why must things change!” she despaired.

Jon cast her a sympathetic look.

“I won’t change, Sansa,” he vowed solemnly. “I can promise you that.”

This heartened Sansa some, but it was not to last. With uncharacteristic boldness, Jon reached to take her hand into his own.

For a moment, neither dared to speak or even breathe. Sansa felt panic begin to well in her chest.

_Oh no, Jon! No you too!_ She plead silently. For, despite the words he had just uttered, Sansa feared Jon was on the brink of saying something that would alter their happy friendship forever.

“I have to go,” Sansa said, unceremoniously wrenching her hand free of Jon’s. “I’ll be late for supper.” She gave a parting wave over her shoulder as she scurried back towards the house, leaving a dumbfounded Jon Snow in her wake.

In the days that followed, Sansa avoided Jon. She was not eager for a repeat of their afternoon by the garden and felt that keeping Jon at arms length was the best way to prevent Jon from spoiling everything.

Sansa’s plan to keep her distance took an unsatisfactory turn when she crossed paths with Jon at the Umber’s bonfire a week later. Jon hardly managed more than a genial hello and a quick ruffling of Arya’s hair before strolling of to spend the evening at Jorelle Mormont’s side. Sansa tried to pay attention to the surrounding chatter of her old school friends as they gathered to admire Jeyne’s ring for perhaps the hundredth time that summer, but her eyes continued to flit across the field to Jory on Jon’s arm, the two of them seemingly having the best of times, heads bent close as they laughed together.

“Sansa? May I ask you something?” Alys Karstark asked, drawing Sansa out of her sullen musings on how becoming Jory looked with those geraniums in her hair.

“Of course.” Sansa allowed Alys to take her arm and steer her away from their merry gaggle of friends.

“You know my brother? Harry?”

Sansa laughed.

“Yes,” she teased. “You know I do.”

“Well…” Alys paused, rounding to face Sansa. “What do you think of him?”

Sansa blinked at her, startled.

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you like him, Sansa?” Alys pressed, a queer sort of anxious gleam in her eyes.

“Well, of course I like him,” Sansa said kindly, casting a look to where Harrion Karstark stood by the fence, chuckling over something one of the Umbers had said. He was so quiet most of the time it was often easy to forget about Harrion, but Sansa supposed she had no reason to not like him.

“Good,” Alys smiled, pleased by Sansa’s answer. She looped their arms together and continued their stroll around the outskirts of the party. “I think he’ll make a good husband someday. Pa’s promised him a third of the farm, you know,” Alys continued conversationally. “He’s too shy to ask you himself, so he sent me to do it. So…what do you think?”

Sansa sputtered helplessly, finally cottoning on to what Alys was asking.

_Marry Harrion Karstark???_ The notion was so ludicrous Sansa felt an astonished bubble of laughter rise within her, but she held her tongue and schooled herself to keep her face carefully blank. Father had often spoken about the prickliness of the Karstarks and their pride. She knew she would have to tread carefully to avoid old friend’s ire.

“I can’t say it ever occurred to me,” Sansa said diplomatically, hoping to not cause too great an offense.

“I didn’t suspect it would,” Alys said with a sigh, shaking her head. “Harry’s rather hopeless when it comes to courting. But you should consider it. Harry’s a good sort of fellow. And think, Sansa! You and I’d be sisters!”

Sansa could not bear to look at Alys, feeling terribly guilty over the hope she heard in Alys’ voice, and not trusting that her own horror at the prospect of wedding Harrion wouldn’t show on her face.

“I’m sorry, Alys, but I don’t need to consider anything,” Sansa said as gently as she could. “I can’t marry Harry. I don’t care for him that way.”

Alys was silent for a long while before saying, “I can’t say that I’m surprised.” There was an unmistakable coldness in her tone. “Well it’s just as well. He likes Branda Flint alright too. I suppose once he knows you’ll not take him he’ll try for her instead.” She paused here, facing Sansa with a haughty turn of her nose. “Please don’t say anything about this to anyone, Sansa.”

“Of course,” Sansa readily agreed, eager to put this horrible ordeal behind her.

She watched, still a little shell-shocked, as Alys left to join Wylla and Beth.

_My first proposal_ , Sansa mused with a tinge of bitterness. In some of her more fanciful moments, she had pictured how she might like to be proposed to. Her imaginings varied. Sometimes there were flowers all around. Sometimes there were songs or poetry. But never in all her wildest daydreams had she thought to receive so dismal a proposal as this. _And by a proxy, no less!_

“Are you alright, Sansa?” Jeyne had wandered to her side, her brown eyes wide with concern.

For a moment, Sansa was tempted to tell her dear friend all, but then she remembered the promise she had made to Alys. If she were to tell Jeyne, then Jeyne was sure to tell Theon and there’d be no keeping it a secret. The whole town would know before the evening was through. Besides, Sansa was not certain she’d ever want to confess to the humiliation of what had just come to pass.

“I was just thinking,” Sansa said, trying to distract herself from dwelling too long on her disappointing proposal. “About how I’m going to miss you terribly.”

Jeyne laughed, but there was a hint of sadness in it.

“Oh no you won’t. You’ll be far too busy with school,” she said, with false cheer. “Besides, you’ll make all sorts of new friends, and you won’t have time to spare a thought for me.”

“Never!” Sansa declared vehemently. “For I shall only ever have one bosom friend.”

Jeyne’s laugh this time was true one, and the pair happily made their way back to party, all thoughts of the Karstarks and Jorelle Mormont and Jon Snow forgotten for now.

* * *

**Proposal #2: Cley**

Sansa grew to like Gulltown very much.

She was lodged in a cottage near the university that neighbored a park and even boasted a fine little garden of its own. The cottage was shared with two girls, Myranda Royce and Mya Stone, fellow first years and acquaintances of Sansa’s Aunt Lysa.

While Sansa was sure nothing could replace the sacred bond formed between her childhood friends, she found herself easily warming to her two new companions.

They were a cheery pair. Myranda was a year older, with large dark eyes and chestnut curls. She had a wicked sense of humor and seemed to gain great pleasure in scandalizing Sansa. Mya was small and dark and fearless. She was most often seen flying down the streets of Gulltown on her bicycle with her hat askew. Though Myranda despaired of Mya’s antics, they made Sansa smile for they reminded her a little of Arya.

Sansa missed home and her family terribly, but not all of Winterfell was lost to her. A piece of home was happily restored every time Jon Snow ventured across the city from his boardinghouse to visit at cottage.

Sansa looked forward to these visits immensely. There was a certain thrill in getting to play hostess in the cottage’s front parlor room. It was as if she were still a girl playacting at being a lady in a great house with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. Jon seemed happy enough to sit while she fussed over the tea things, talking of their schoolwork or reminiscing about home.

Sometimes Mya and Myranda would join them for tea. Jon and Mya got on well, and Sansa wondered if perhaps she reminded Jon of Arya too. Myranda, however, alternated between teasing and brazenly flirting with Jon in turns. He tolerated it good-naturedly, though Sansa didn’t miss the way his ears and the skin above his collar tinged slightly pink in response to some of the shocking things Myranda said.

Jon was not her only visitor from home. A few weeks into her first term, Cley Cerwyn began to call on her at the cottage.

Cley was of an age with Robb and had grown up on the farm that directly neighbored the Stark’s. He had started at the university around the same time as Jon, though neither seemed to have much to do with the other. In fact, Jon tended to frown quite a lot when Sansa made mention of Cley’s visits, and always found a way to hurriedly change the topic of conversation.

Sansa suspected these calls Cley paid to the cottage were Robb’s doing. That her older brother had bid his friend to check in on her from time to time. Though Sansa often found Robb’s protectiveness a bore, knowing he had taken such measures to look after her well being despite the miles that separated them made a fondness for her older brother swell in Sansa’s chest.

And so, for Robb’s sake, Sansa endured Cley’s regular visits as graciously as she could. He was a dull conversationalist, and Sansa often found her eye straying to the clock in the corner of the parlor room, counting the minutes he lingered on the cottage’s settee.

One such visit was drawing to a tedious close, when Cley said something wholly unexpected.

“Sansa, would you promise to become Mrs. Cley Cerwyn someday?”

Sansa almost laughed at this abrupt proposition, but what Cley said next wasn’t funny in the slightest.

“You could finish school first, if you wanted,” he added in a tone that suggested the offer rather magnanimous of him.

_How dare he!_ Sansa seethed, her temper of old beginning to bubble to the surface. _The nerve of him! As if he were doing me some great honor in offering his hand!_

Before Sansa could stop herself, a refusal flew out of her mouth with more bite to it than was polite.

Cley was insulted to have his proposal thrown back in his face. Several cross words passed between them, each with the aim to humiliate the other. Sansa had no slate to bash over Cley’s head this time, but she did have the bouquet of daffodils he’d brought to the cottage that she forcefully shoved into his chest. It was not until Cley had stormed out in a fury, that Sansa began to look on her conduct with some mortification.

She wept a little when she recounted the horrid affair to Mya and Myranda later that afternoon.

“Oh Sansa! You didn’t!” Myranda said, astonished.

“You’re well rid of him!” Mya cooed, running a comforting hand across Sansa’s back.

“Why must proposals be so horrible?” Sansa bemoaned, when Mya pushed a cup of tea into her hands.

“And what do you expect?” Myranda scoffed. “Some golden Prince Charming to come riding in on a white horse?”

Myranda meant her words to be teasing, but when Sansa began to cry once more, she regretted them.

“Oh there now,” she murmured, drawing Sansa to her. “It’s alright.”

“He’s not worth your tears,” Mya added.

The three of them remained seated on Sansa’s bed, quietly waiting for her tears to stop.

“Sansa?” Myranda ventured finally. “Did you truly throw the bouquet at him?”

Sansa hiccoughed a tearful laugh. Soon Myranda and Mya joined her, the friends breaking into a helpless round of giggles, clinging together.  

* * *

**Proposal #3: Jon**

“Jeyne seems happy.”

Sansa smiled as she saw Jon making his way towards her. She had seen little of him since they returned for the summer holidays, having been too preoccupied aiding Jeyne with the plans for her wedding. She felt a little guilty for it. Jon wouldn’t be returning with her to Gulltown in the autumn. He had been accepted into a medical program at Queenscrown, and while Sansa was proud of him, she knew she would miss him once the summer was done.

“Yes, she does,” Sansa agreed, looking to where her dear friend stood pink-cheeked and resplendent in her ivory gown with its high collar and three flounces. “Though how anyone can be happy wed to Theon Greyjoy I’ll never know” Sansa added wryly, her eye flitting for a moment to Jeyne’s groom who stood wearing his customary cocksure grin.

It was funny to think there was a time when the sight of Theon Greyjoy used to fill her bosom friend with dread, fearful that he might put crickets in her lunch basket or dip the end of her plait into an inkwell.

_Those days seem so very long ago_ , Sansa thought with a sigh.

Sansa was unspeakably happy for her dearest friend, but over the past week an odd sort of sadness had passed over Sansa. Listening to Jeyne speak of Theon and of their life together, Sansa could not help but feel that Jeyne was moving on, out of the realm of their girlhood camaraderie and into a place where Sansa could not follow.

_I have not lost her friendship. Not truly_. Sansa had chided herself, feeling both silly and selfish. Still, she could not shake the feeling of sorrow that welled within her at the notion that things would never be the same again.

“May I walk you home?” Jon asked, as if sensing Sansa’s need to distance herself from the merriment of the wedding breakfast. Sansa gave him a grateful nod, taking Jon’s arm with one hand and gathering the skirts of her pink bridesmaid dress in the other.

It was a bonny afternoon, the late spring blossoms still clinging to the trees that lined the Kingsroad. Sansa reached to pick one before playfully tucking it into Jon’s buttonhole with a laugh.

“It was a beautiful wedding,” she conceded after a pace.

She mentally omitted the part where Shaggydog, the mangy thing Rickon had taken on as a pet had loosed itself from its pen and followed her little brother all the way to the Poole’s, nearly upsetting the table bearing the cake. It had taken both Robb and Bran to wrangle the overly affectionate beast away from the other guests, the pair of them looking a little worse for wear when all was said and done. Still, even Sansa had to admit it was a little funny to watch her brothers skid past rows of neatly lined white chairs and Mrs. Poole’s flower beds while dressed in their Sunday best.

Jon nodded quietly in response, seeming distracted with his own thoughts. Sansa didn’t mind. There was something comforting in walking the familiar path between the Poole’s garden and home. A journey she and Jon had made countless times before.

They were crossing through the meadow, their preferred shortcut to Winterfell Farm, when Jon halted Sansa with a gentle tug on her elbow.

“Look, Sansa, there is something I want to say to you.”

There was something purposeful in the way he was looking at her that caused Sansa’s stomach to sink with dread.

“Jon, don’t.”

He did not heed her, instead reaching so he could hold both her hands.

“We can’t go on the way we are.”

“Jon…”

“I love you.” His voice was firm, his declaration hanging baldly between them. “You know I do. And I must ask...I must know if someday you’ll be my wife?” Sansa felt as if all the air had been knocked from her lungs.

“Oh Jon…” She started, choking over the words. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Jon repeated, his brow furrowing. “I thought that...don’t you care for me?”

Jon was looking at her so hopefully, Sansa’s heart broke a little.

“Of course I do, Jon!” she insisted, desperate to make him understand. “I just can’t be your wife.”

The silence that stretched between them was unbearable. The last thing she would ever want was to hurt Jon. He was one of her dearest friends and she was desolate at the thought of losing him.

_Oh Jon! Why did you have to spoil everything!_

“Is there someone else?” Jon murmured at last, sounding miserable at the thought.

“No. I don’t care for anyone in that way.”

_Please understand, Jon_ , Sansa silently begged.

“Might I at least hope, Sansa?”

“Can’t we go on as we are?” Sansa deflected. “As dear friends?”

Jon stared at her a moment, before giving a bitter laugh.

“Friends, huh?” Jon released her hands, hurt written across his face.

“I’m so desperately sorry,” Sansa said. “Can you forgive me?”

_Please Jon! Please let us go on as we were_ , Sansa prayed, but from the defeated slump of Jon’s shoulders she knew that could never be.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I just fooled myself into thinking you loved me is all,” he said with sad smile. “Goodbye Sansa.”

That night, Sansa sobbed herself to sleep. She was already miserable at the thought of losing Jeyne, but now she must face the loss of Jon’s friendship as well? It was far too cruel.

_Oh why can’t boys be more sensible about these things!_

She had been honest with Jon. She did care for him. And there wasn’t anyone else.

_But there was still the promise of someone._

Sansa had always held rather firm ideas about romance. She had promised herself she would never marry for anything less than the truest of loves, and as dear as Jon was, he was not quite the measure of the ideal she had dreamed up for herself.

_Perhaps Randa was right_ , Sansa thought wretchedly, tears drying on her cheeks. _Perhaps I am foolishly waiting for a Prince Charming who will never come_.

Even so, Sansa decided she rather live out the rest her days an old maid than ever settle for less than the grand love she desired.

* * *

  **Proposal #4: Harold**

Prince Charming arrived one rainy afternoon a month into the fall term of Sansa’s final year in Gulltown.

He did not come riding up on a white charger, as Myranda had teased so many years ago. Instead he came ducking into the same pavilion in the park as Sansa, soaked to the skin, a broken umbrella clutched in one hand.

The first thing Sansa remembered were golden curls and hanging over a set of clever blue eyes. The second was his smile, dimpled and wide and carefree.

They spent a pleasant, if not slightly damp, half an hour holed up under the pavilion roof. In that time, Sansa managed to learn that Prince Charming’s name was Harold Hardyng, that he was lately returned to his studies after some time abroad, that he lived with an elderly aunt in a house edging the other side of the park, and that he was terribly fond of music and painting. She was certain she would have learned much more, but the rain had stopped and she had little excuse to linger in the pavilion.

Harry gallantly offered to escort her home, and Sansa was practically giddy when he bid her farewell with a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. No man had ever done such a thing to her before, and she nearly swooned from the delighted shock of it. Mya and Myranda teased her awfully after he had left and grew only worse when a bouquet of lilacs and pink roses with a note from a Mr. Harold Hardyng arrived for her the very next day. Sansa blushed and endured their saucy jibes and winks, the small happy smile never leaving her face.

In the following months, Harry became her most diligent escort. He accompanied her to recitals and concerts around the city. He took leisurely strolls with her through the park, and spent evenings tucked in the cottage’s front parlor. He even brought her to take tea with his beloved aunt.

“And where is your handsome shadow today?” Myranda teased, when Sansa returned to the cottage after a pleasant morning spent reading in the park.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa blushed. Myranda only shot her an amused smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I confess, Mya and I were a little put out at being cast aside all autumn, but I daresay we’ve come around to the idea,” Myranda said, setting her crocheting down. “Though I do wish you and Harry would stop tiptoeing around the thing and make up your minds already. There’s nothing quite so tedious as a lengthy courtship. Now tell me, Sansa, what color will the bridesmaids’ gowns be? For I tell you, I cannot abide dressing in anything lavender!”

Sansa’s face was heated crimson through as she made a hasty retreat to her room, Myranda’s merry laughter following her every step.

Midway through the spring term, Sansa received a letter from Robb. Among the bits of news from home he shared was something that Sansa had to reread three times over. Jon Snow was engaged! The young lady was of Queenscrown. Apparently, Jon had spent the winter holidays with her family and everything was decided shortly after.

Sansa felt a pang that things stood so badly with Jon that she should hear such a momentous thing from anyone but himself, but she took comfort in the news. Jon had his Queenscrown girl. She had Harry. It seemed everything had worked out just as it should.

Harry’s proposal came two weeks before the end of their final term.

It was the stuff of songs. He brought Sansa to the pavilion where they had first met while taking cover that rainy afternoon, and gifted her with a dozen red roses. His speech was prettily made, the words clearly and carefully chosen, and Sansa thought the whole thing terribly romantic.

She had always dreamed of a such a proposal, and her answer was ready on her lips, when she was seized by a sudden frightening moment of clarity.

“Oh Harry, I can’t.”

Harry blinked at her, confused.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly, beginning to frown.

“I can’t marry you!” The words sounded horrible to Sansa’s ears, but as she spoke them she knew them to be true.

“But you love me?” Harry persisted, the confidence in his voice faltering slightly.

“I thought I did, truly,” Sansa said with a shake of her head, feeling utterly wretched. “Perhaps I do. But not enough to marry you.”

Harold Hardyng was handsome, and clever, and elegant, and charming. He was all the things Sansa had ever wanted and more. And yet it was somehow not _enough_.

“I see.” Harry paused a moment, his face pinched angrily. “And these past few months were what? An amusement?”

Sansa winced. The accusation stung, but she supposed she deserved it. She had behaved abominably. She had given Harry every reason to hope and now…

“I’m sorry Harry,” Sansa pled quietly. She did not want to hurt him, but she could see it was too late for that.

Harry rose from the bench, a scowl marring his handsome face.

“You are not the girl I thought you were, Sansa Stark.”

And with that pronouncement he turned on his heel, leaving Sansa alone and strangely relieved.

The weeks following Sansa’s convocation were bittersweet. She knew she would miss Randa and Mya and the crowded little cottage they three shared. It had been her sanctuary these past four years, and there was something frightening about venturing forth from its ivy-covered walls into the unknown.

Her going was made a little easier by the lingering of bad feeling between her and Harold Hardyng. Sansa had managed to avoid Harry since that dreadful afternoon at the pavilion, though their paths had crossed once or twice during the festivities following convocation. Each time, Harry had greeted her with the same practiced coolness before finding some excuse to flee. Sansa endured it all balefully. She deserved it. She had wounded his pride and his heart (or so he claimed).

Still, she could not find it in herself to regret what she had said nor did she think her refusal a mistake. Harry may have suited all the particulars of what Sansa envisioned for her partner in life, but to marry without genuine feeling was a compromise of her ideals she could not bear.

_He will get over his disappointment with time_ , Sansa thought. _Just as Jon had done_.

Sansa had not seen or heard from Jon since the summer, he having spent his winter holidays in Queenscrown. However, to Sansa’s surprised delight, a white box arrived at the cottage on the morning of her convocation. The box contained a bundle of lilies-of-the-valley, just like the ones that bloomed in Mother’s garden, and a card.

It read: _With my heartiest congratulations, your old chum, Jon._

Sansa had thought it strange that Jon should send her flowers. It had been so long since they’d last spoken and even then it had been uncomfortably stilted, lacking in the easy warmth of their friendship of old. And yet there was something comforting in knowing Jon had thought of her. Sansa had carried the flowers with her as she processed to receive her cap and diploma buoyed to have a piece of home to cling onto.

* * *

**Proposal #5: Jon (again)**

Sansa hardly recognized Bran when he came to collect her at the depot. He was taller than both father and Robb now, though less broad around the shoulders, and there was something very grownup about the way he wore his hair, neatly combed and parted out of his eyes. _He is a young man_ , Sansa thought, watching as he leapt down to help her into the buggy seat.

“All hail the return of the native!” he teased, hopping in beside her. “And how does it feel to be a bonafide B.A.?”

He smiled at her, his cheeks dimpling just as they had when he was small. Sansa hooked her arm through his, drawing close to his side, pleased to see that perhaps her little brother had not changed so much after all.

The ride home was pleasantly spent, Bran listening as Sansa told him of her convocation and final weeks in Gulltown. She was disappointed when she learned Mother and Father were away, calling on Robb and Roslin’s new house, but as they rounded the road leading to Winterfell Farm her spirits rose once more.

A jolly little welcoming party awaited them at the front of the house. Arya, skinny as ever, wisps of her dark hair blown loose by the breeze. Rickon, bouncy and waving from his seat atop the porch rail. Old Nan looking hale for all that she was nearing a hundred, her wrinkled face folding into a beatific smile as the buggy drew near.

They took tea in Mother’s garden, stuffing themselves silly with lemon cakes and scones topped with clotted cream and Old Nan’s currant jam. Sansa felt pleasantly content sat amongst Mother’s roses, listening to her sister and brothers as they chattered and sniped at one another, each eager to share the news of the island. She was so happy she couldn’t even bring herself to bother with scolding Arya when she spoke through a mouthful of cake. It was good to be home.

“Arya has a beau,” Bran said when talk of his studies at Queens had come to a lull.

“Quiet you!”

Arya’s face looked red and pinched, and Sansa suspected that if Bran were sitting any closer their sister might have shoved him.

“Who is he?” Sansa asked, surprised. Her little sister had never shown much interest in such things before.

_We are grown now_ , she supposed. _It is only natural_.

“That big sulking fellow that Mikken’s taken on at the smithy in town,” Bran supplied, a sly grin creeping across his face.

“His name is Gendry and he is my friend,” Arya insisted, her face flushed nearly as red as Sansa’s hair.

Taking pity on her sister, Sansa turned to her youngest brother. Rickon was sat fidgeting in his seat, a bit of icing sugar smeared around his mouth.

“And what of you, Rickon? What else have I missed in Winterfell?”

He stilled for a moment, his little brow furrowing as he considered.

“I lost two teeth since you left,” he said at last, grinning widely to show her the gaps. “And Robb made me a new fishing pole.”

“Can’t you think of anything more interesting than that?” Arya rolled her eyes.

Rickon scowled before blurting, “Did you know that Jon Snow is dying?”

“Rickon!” Arya hissed in warning, but it was too late.

Sansa sat numb. Her heart sunk in her chest.

“What does he mean?”

Arya and Bran shared a solemn look before Bran spoke, gently reaching for Sansa’s hand.

“We didn’t want to tell you like this, Sansa.”

“Jon’s very ill.” Arya suddenly would not raise her eyes from her lap. “He took down with typhoid fever at the end of last term while he was working at the hospital.”

Sansa paled. She felt as though she might faint.

“He’s at home now,” Bran added kindly. “They’ve hired a nurse and everything.”

“How bad is it?” Sansa’s voice sounded strange and small and not like her at all.

Bran paused. There was something very near to pity in his eyes.

“The doctor says there’s no reason we shouldn’t hope.”

Sansa nodded. Blindly she staggered her way into the house. Her tears mercifully held until she was safely inside the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Jon Snow was dying.

The news was too unbearable. Too unthinkable.

It seemed cruelly unjust that only a few weeks ago Sansa had fancied Jon and she were making a new beginning. She had fooled herself into seeing that bundle of lilies-of-the-valley as an olive branch. A gesture that Jon had forgiven her. That they might return to that dear companionship of their old school days. But there would be no forgiveness now. No return to the easy friendship she had cherished. She was too late.

“Sansa? Can I come in?” Arya did not wait for her sister’s answer, slipping into the room on silent feet. Sansa felt the bed dip as Arya sat beside her. “Are you alright?” Tentative fingers came to rest on Sansa’s back.

“I’m such a little fool, Arya.” Sansa batted at the tears coursing down her cheeks, but they were only replaced by fresh tracks as she continued to weep miserably. “I’ve been so stupid.”

“Don’t cry, Sansa.” A handkerchief was pushed into Sansa’s hand. It was a plain with a crudely embroidered daisy as it’s only ornament. At one time, Sansa might have turned her nose up at the offering or clucked her tongue at Arya’s inattention to her sewing, but now she only grasped the scrap of cloth fiercely, her fingers worrying along the crooked yellow stitches.

“Jon’s stronger than they think. I know him,” Arya insisted. “He won’t let this lick him.”

Sansa tried to take solace in Arya’s words, but that pitying look that had been in Bran’s eyes lingered in her mind.

“Arya,” she sputtered between hiccoughing sobs. “If Jon were to...if he...not knowing that I…” Sansa’s tears came too thickly for her to speak but the words she’d been about to say sent her reeling.

She loved Jon Snow. She knew that now. Not her schoolgirl idea of love. Not the flimsy infatuation she’d held for Harry. No. What she felt was honest and true and far too late.

How could she have been so blind? How could she mistake the warmth, the strength of feeling that bonded them together as merely friendship? What a stupid little fool she had been! Facing the notion of a life without Jon was an agony. What grim future would the world for her without him by her side?

_And he’ll never know_ , she wept bitterly. That was perhaps the cruelest thing of all. That Jon should die never knowing how she cared.

“Hush,” Arya murmured, gathering Sansa into her skinny arms. “He knows, Sansa. He knows.”

The sisters kept a vigil upon Sansa’s bed, weeping and praying in turns. Sansa was sure she had never been more wretched in her life. It seemed whatever bright dreams she held for herself had all been snuffed out at once and nothing would ever be right again.

It wasn’t until the small hours of the morning that they found sleep, their hands clutched together, tethering them both to the earth. Later, Sansa would look back on that horrid night as the first time she and Arya truly felt like sisters.

News of Jon Snow’s recovery reached Winterfell Farm as most news seemed to, through Mrs. Manderly. Though Sansa usually had little patience for busybody gossips like Leona Manderly, she clung to every word the woman spoke of Jon.

“He took a turn for the better last night,” she said. “Doctor says he should be back to his old self by summer’s end.”

Sansa ignored the knowing looks Mrs. Manderly and Mother shot her way. Jon would live! Sansa wanted to weep again, blissful tears of relief and joy.

In the following weeks, Sansa relied on others for word of Jon. Both Robb and Arya were frequent visitors to Jon’s bedside, and both were charitable enough to report the happenings of their visits back to her. Often Arya would try to prod Sansa into accompanying her on her visits, but Sansa refused.

It was strange. When Jon was almost lost to her forever, Sansa had wanted nothing more than to see him again, but now that he was out of danger, the thought of facing him was...terrifying. The weight of her newly realized feelings was overwhelming enough without having to brave Jon and his possible rejection.

Jon had professed to love her once, but that was before her foolish refusal of his proposal. Then there was the matter Jon’s fiancée in Queenscrown. It would break her heart, but Sansa was willing to stand by and watch Jon marry another. She would do anything to make him happy.

It was a fine August afternoon when Jon finally sought Sansa out.

“I’ve come to ask if you’d go on one of our old walks through the wood?” He smiled, ambling toward her, his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Jon!” Sansa startled, looking up wide-eyed from the basket of apples at her feet. Jon wove his way closer through the orchard. He was thinner than when she’d last seen him, but she was pleased to see there was a healthy color to his face. “You’re looking well!”

Jon shrugged.

“I’m just glad to be out of bed, I suppose.”

Sansa smiled. Arya had told her of how bored Jon had been during her last visits, always wheedling with the doctor to be allowed out of doors. Were Arya not so determined to follow the doctor’s instructions, Sansa suspected her sister might very well have aided in Jon’s escape from his bed.

“So,” Jon rocked back on his heels. “How about that walk?”

“I can’t. Robb and Rosiln are expecting me for tea.” Disappointment flickered across Jon’s face, so Sansa hurried to offer, “I can go with you as far as the pond?”

Jon smiled once more.

“Alright.”

They headed down the familiar path to Manderly Pond. Jon looked the picture of ease, talking in that soft, earnest way of his about Samwell Tarly, a friend he had made at Queenscrown.

Sansa wished she felt so easy. After all, she had wished for this, for a return to their cherished friendship of days gone by...only now it did not seem enough. Greedy girl that she was, she wanted more than Jon’s friendship. In nearly losing Jon, the innermost secret part of Sansa’s heart had been uncovered and she was loath to bury it away again.

Sansa smoothed her hands nervously over the faded skirt of her old cotton dress. It was pretty cornflower blue, but undeniably the plainest of her dresses. Sansa felt suddenly self-conscious of the mud on her hem from her time in the orchard. She was little disappointed. When she had envisioned her reunion with Jon, she had hoped to be wearing her light green gown with the high collar made of ivory lace. The color set off her hair wonderfully and Jon had mentioned liking it at Theon’s clambake two summers ago.

Of course, that was silly to think on now. What would Jon care of the dress she was wearing? What would he care what she looked like at all? _He is engaged_ , she reminded herself glumly. Sansa sighed and willed herself to cast such thoughts out of her mind, and instead focus on the joy that was Jon, hale and whole beside her.

They leisurely ambled along, admiring the last of the summer’s violets and asters. As they passed the old willow on the northern bank of the pond, Sansa smiled, remembering that day Jon had dove in and rescued her. Sansa had been wroth with him then. A silly little girl too guided by the sting of one unintentional slight.

“Could there ever be a place on earth more perfect than this?” Sansa said as they neared the footbridge.

Jon hummed in agreement.

“There’s nothing to Winterfell in summer.” Jon paused to lean against the rail and look out at the water. “I mean to come back here. To open my practice.”

With that, Sansa’s contentment shattered. The idea of Jon’s plans filled her with a painful ache in her chest, for whatever lay in Jon’s future, she was certain she would have no place in it.

“And your fiancée won’t mind being so far from her family?” The words were out of Sansa’s mouth before she could think wiser of it. In that moment, she hated herself. She sounded no better than Jory Mormont or Wynafryd Manderly or any of the other spiteful cats she’d known as schoolmates.

Jon frowned. The subject of his soon-to-be bride seemed one he was not eager to discuss with her.

Sansa’s mind whirred, trying to grapple for the proper words to apologize, to return to the pleasant companionship they had shared before she had ruined it with her petty jealousies.

“That’s done with.” Jon’s voice cut through the air, solemn and firm, his eyes set on the water rippling below. “The engagement,” he clarified. “I called it off. I didn’t think it was fair to Val.”

“Oh.”

Sansa blinked at him, stunned. He was not engaged! It seemed too miraculous to be true. But any joy the news brought to her heart was immediately dampened by the bitterness in his face.

She reached out and laid a tentative hand on his forearm, offering what comfort she could. “

I’m sorry, Jon.”

He did not shake off her touch as she thought he might. Instead he turned to look at where her hand lingered on the sleeve of his coat.

“Don’t be,” he murmured at long last. “I should have known there could never be anybody for me but you.”

He was looking at her now, those grey eyes brimming over with a thousand things that left Sansa feeling peculiarly lightheaded.

“You mean…” she began haltingly. “You still love me?”

Jon laughed. It was not mocking, but a sound that warmed her to her toes. Had he not reached for her hand then and there she was certain she might have floated away.

“I tried to stop,” he confessed, lacing their fingers together. “I told myself half a hundred times that I was a fool to hope. And when Hardyng came along I knew there was no chance for me.”

“Jon,” she fretted. “Harry and I...it’s not...”

“I know.” Jon shot her a sly grin. “I got letter a few weeks ago when I was laid up in bed. From a Miss Myranda Royce.”

"She didn’t.” Sansa exclaimed with mounting horror. What precisely had Myranda meddled in now?

“She did,” Jon confirmed gleefully. “It was not very long. She only told me that there wasn’t anything between you and Harry and that I should ‘try again’.”

“Oh.”

Sansa was not certain whether she wanted to thank or throttle dear old Randa.

Jon cleared his throat. The smile had faded from his face and he looked unaccountably nervous all of a sudden.

“Sansa I--I can’t promise you much. Not yet. It’ll be three more years before I finish my medical degree and even after that I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you all of the things you deserve.”

“Hush!” Sansa silenced him, joyful tears glistening in her eyes. “What I want is you.”

Jon beamed down at her before drawing her into a tender kiss.

“Is that a yes, Carrots?” he teased when they parted, both flushed and tremendously pleased.

“Jon!” Sansa sought to free herself from his hold to aim a scolding swat at him but Jon was quicker, diving to draw her into another kiss. She sighed, melting against him, content.

They walked back to Winterfell Farm hand in hand, both consumed by the rosy haze held in the promise of a future spent happily at each other’s side.

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun combining the worlds of Avonlea and ASOIAF during last year’s Remix and I was so tickled by the response from all of you that I couldn’t resist revisiting this AU again. I’ve drawn inspiration from both the books and the miniseries, and have definitely dialed all of the pining and hearteyes up a notch. ;)


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